


Dreams that Come

by pink_orient



Category: The Borgias
Genre: F/M, Gen, Season/Series 03, Sibling Incest (barely)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_orient/pseuds/pink_orient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucrezia dreams. She dreams of her past, of an uncertain future, of things she would rather not have be permissible</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams that Come

_All things are permissible in our dreams…_

 

Donna Guilia says that all things are permissible in our dreams but Lucrezia isn’t certain that the things she dreams about are the things Donna Guilia was talking about. Lucrezia’s sleep is filled not with kisses and secret trysts but with shadows and with ghosts. She dreams of her past, of an uncertain future, of things she would rather not have be permissible.

Sometimes Lucrezia dreams of Djem. In her dreams his dark fingers are gentle on her own as he lifts her palm to his throat, closed, no sound escaping from it. Whatever words he would say, whatever knowledge he would impart is silenced to her. These dreams are few and far between now and Lucrezia tries not to dwell on the past, on things she has no power over. Since her return from Pisaro and her stay with the scholarly sisters of St. Cecilla, Lucrezia is better read than even her family would know: coughing up blood is not symptomatic of marsh fever and neither is lack of voice.

Other nights Lucrezia dreams of her Lord Sforza, of his hands, of the ways he panted against her neck. On those nights she longs for her mother’s villa, when Cesare was only across the garden and is was not fodder for gossip if she wished to slip into his bed to be held. This is not possible within the walls of her holy father’s Vatican, so the only comfort on those nights was the gurgle of her baby, the gentle creak of his cradle as it rocked.

Cesare would comfort her, if he knew, she knows this, but -- Lucrezia does not want to hear his questions; _has he been ungallant? You must tell me._ Worse, she would not see the guilt on his face, would not place that burden on his shoulders. Lucrezia is a Borgia and some secrets will stay between her and the dead men. Besides there is a silver knife, etched with the Sforza family serpent and stained with Sforza blood, that is reminder enough that Cesare needs no details. For her brother, when it comes to her, her face is touchstone enough.

Lucrezia’s dreams leave her awake but lethargic. She takes to the sun on those days; bringing Giovanni into the light, arranging her morning repast there. The servants are quiet those mornings; bringing a light white wine with grapes and bread so she can snack as she reads. Burchard asks only that the tomes she borrows be returned in good condition, he makes no comment on what her selections are.

The volumes take time to comb through. They are large and aged and, much like cooking, they require attention and focus to sift the good from the chaff. She finds all manner of nonsense (eating the testicles of a bull to enhance the male member, really now) along with small bits of interest: what can cure women of unwanted children (a bitter herb Lucrezia is sure she has seen in both Vanozza and Guilia’s private gardens).

She neither hides nor advertises her time spent studying and while Cesare and Guilia might glance questioningly at her growing collection of manuscripts, neither asks for an explanation. This, Lucrezia believes, is for the best.

 

In the days and nights following the attempted assassination of her father, Lucrezia dreams poorly.  Conflicted, she wishes Alfonso to hell for his vow to St. Agnes and yet, she feels relieved not to have to confide in him about her dreams. With each passing night she sees new horrors: Cesare, his body twisting as he coughs up blood and her black potion; Giovanni, her child, her sweet boy, his face scrunched in a cry he cannot make, eyes bloodshot and empty.

Tonight it is her own body that bucks and writhes with poison and in the distance she can see Juan lifting a candle towards her, the tapper long and slim while her former husband stands beside him, clapping his shoulder and raising a goblet to her. Lucrezia knows it was a dream, know it is not real but still she wakes clutching at her belly, her throat, her mouth to stifle her gasps, so loud in the quiet dawn of the morning. She examines her hands, searching for any smudge of black beneath the nails. There is nothing there, nothing to give hint to which reality is hers.

As she soothes herself, Lucrezia hears the early call of birds and Lucrezia knows there will be no more sleep. Giovanni will not wake for at least another hour and in the silence, Lucrezia rises and opens her chambers’ shutters to let in the little light there is, before sitting down at her little table and her current tome that discusses the medicinal qualities of _calendula officinalis;_ marigolds are a pretty flower and an easy plant to keep, in Rome or in Naples. 

When the maid arrives with breakfast she is not surprised to see her lady awake, such has been her habit increasingly of late. Instead it is Lucrezia that is surprised, pleasantly so, when, after her maid has laid out her breakfast and smoothed the bed covers, her brother knocks on the door. 

“Cesare!” Lucrezia smiles and holds out her hands for his. 

“Dear Sis,” he says before he stops, searching for words. He looks toward the open window and Lucrezia understands. 

“The maids have told you I dream,” she said.

He turns toward her and in his face she sees the guilt and frustration and love that she knows is unique and only for her. “They told me you wake earlier and earlier, before the nightingales have finished their singing. They did not tell me why.” 

“I –” she breaks off, walking to the cradle where Giovanni still sleeps, oblivious to call of the birds, the morning sun and his uncle’s questions. “I find myself trapped, dear brother. I dream of things I would do better to forget. But I can’t, can I?” She asks, turning to face him. “For I am a Borgia and we neither forget or forgive.”

Cesare frowns. He steps forward, “I would have you sleep.”

She shakes her head, “There is no comfort in sleep. I am alone in sleep, alone in my dreams, alone when I wake.”

“You are never alone. I am here, Alfonso is—”

“Alfonso is not here!” she cuts off loudly. Giovanni stirs and Lucrezia softens her tone. “Alfonso loves his vow to St. Agnes more than he loves me. And besides, he is not a Borgia. What can he know of my dreams?” She turns away. “He is not bad. He will be kind and that I can take comfort in but my dreams are dark and they are not something I would share with him.”

“Nor with me?” Cesare’s voice is rough. 

Lucrezia turns to face him. “I dream of things better forgotten. And you would neither be able to forget them or forgive them.” 

Cesare steps to her then, holding her shoulders. “That is for me to decide, Sis.”

“Cesare – ” Giovanni stirs and Lucrezia is saved from having to answer as she steps away to pick up her son. “Giovanni needs me now. I will talk no more of my dreams in front of my son.”

“Lucrezia –” He holds her shoulders while she holds Giovanni. “I will press no more but I will not forget. I cannot undo what has been done but that does not mean I allow your distress to continue.” He kisses her hair gently before he leaves. The room feels desperately empty without him and Lucrezia clutches her son to her just a little tighter. 

 

In the days following her wedding to Alfonso, Lucrezia’s mind feels paradoxically caught between pleasure and despair. She loses time staring at the sun rising, thinking of her brother’s hands on her skin. She stops hearing the fierce call of the falcons over the Vatican and hears Cesare’s voice in a rough whisper. As her chamber in the Vatican falls dark, Lucrezia sees his black cloak in the chambers hangings, his skin dull gold against the light of candles. Even Ferdinand’s demonstration does not alter these waking dreams; they are her solace.

But as her days seem better, her nights grow exponentially worse. Lucrezia has never worried before for her brother on his travels but she regrets his absence when her dreams show him drowning in a tossing sea, falling under a rearing horse, letting a sword in under his guard. Seeing that his manservant, the ever-present Micheletto, has not accompanied him makes her dreaming all that more disturbed. Lucrezia is aware of her brother’s more covert activities but knowing his prowess does not diminish her fear. 

Each night as she rocks Giovanni to sleep she tells herself that everything shall be fine. That Cesare will land safely, will send home a missive containing his safety and the name of his bride; that Giovanni will not be parted from her for long, for surely Ferdinand will show some leniency when she departs for Naples; that this night will be more peaceful than last night. The last is never true. 

 

The night before she leaves for Naples Lucrezia dreams of her son in the arms of a bloodied woman. Her nightgown is soaked at the hips and stomach as though she has been cut open; more blood seeps sluggishly from a wound at the neck. Lucrezia cannot see the woman’s face, hidden behind a dark drape of hair.

She aches to move, to snatch her baby from this blooded woman’s arms but her feet are held fast to floor. A candle appears beside her and it is again Juan who holds the light. He whispers in her ear, _It was for the good of the family sis_ , and she sees the dark stain begin to spread across her son’s small chest. Alfonso appears on her other side, _My uncle has expressed his disquiet at the thought of a child without legitimacy,_ he murmurs. He places a hot hand on her cold womb. _There will be other sons_ , he says, _noble sons_. When Lucrezia awakes, to find her belly cramping and her bleeding started, she vows she will give Alfonso no sons until her own son is given a place in his household. She knows where that herb grows now.

 

Lucrezia does not particularly like Naples nor does she dislike it. Naples is a place as Pesaro was a place. What makes it unpleasant is its lack of familiar company, it’s oblique glances, the unspoken whispers. In Rome, her maid would come early, bringing a cup of warm milk, spiced with honey. In Rome, she knew which servants she could count on for gossip and rumors and which nobles were useful and which were not. 

In Naples, the maid looks disapprovingly at the bed Lucrezia does not share with Alfonso. Lucrezia does not deny Alfonso his rights as her husband but she was firm that her bed would be her own and that when their time was complete, he would rest in his own chamber. In Naples, there are no servants she can trust, save Micheletto and even he has taken his leave and joined Cesare on his conquests. In Naples there is nothing but a new library of books to learn and dreams to dream.

Giovanni’s arrival and the game of kings that must be played to secure his safety do not improve the dreaming. Djem and his pleading silence return. Juan watches with her as Cesare falls on the battlefield. Giovanni still and silent in his crib. Lucrezia thinks of Juan and his madness, wonders how often he went without sleep before all he craved was the poppy extract. She does not want opium, does not want to be Juan – confused and crazed – Lucrezia wants only to sleep peacefully again. She wants her dreams to be of Cesare and candlelight. Or of Giovanni and her mother’s sunlit courtyard. Lucrezia wants Rome and she knows Naples will never give it to her.

 

When the political sands shift and the hot breath of Frederigo’s alliance with the Sforza family comes can be felt in her sleep, Lucrezia knows that the time for her dark dreaming is at an end.

She will not tolerate being a pawn. She is Lucrezia Borgia, a princess of the Church, sister to Il Valentino and the Sforza bitch will rue the day she tried to cage the daughter of Rome. Lucrezia is not Alfonso, so afraid of the future and what he does not understand. There are ways out of Naples, if one is bold enough to seek them. Lucrezia has ridden in front of the _cannon_ , she does not fear her own death. 

Alfonso may trust that Naples will remain safe from Sforza plots but Lucrezia knows better – she was, whatever the Church may say, married to one after all. And if there is one thing her first marriage taught her it is that betrothal promises mean less than the parchment they are inked on. The sleeping draught she takes, she makes herself. There can be no mistakes and she will not leave her son an orphan or her brother without her. Lucrezia will delay no longer. Rome is the Borgia’s and the Borgia’s belong in Rome. Lucrezia is going home.

In her deep sleep, Lucrezia dreams of Rome. She dreams of the stone and the stucco, the smell of braised meat and the taste of the communion wine. She feels soft grease of the ashes that anoint her forehead. She feels the warmth of the sun on her skin and the smells the grass under her feet. She hears the coo of her brother’s doves, replenished finally from the damage of her father’s hawks.

Lucrezia can feel her brother’s hands on her arms, his lips against her brow. She can hear his words and knows they are true: _I will make you happy_. _I promise_ …. _With you? Of course. Rome, Naples, France, they can crumble to dust for all I care_. Rome will not crumble to dust—even in the changing landscape of her dreams, Lucrezia knows this. Just as she knows she will wake and Cesare will keep his promise.

It is not Cesare’s face she sees when she awakes but even as she mounts her horse, over Alfonso’s urgings to rest (she has rested enough, thank you), and they ride North she knows what’s coming. They do not even ride for a full day before it is his horse on the horizon, his face coming ever closer. Lucrezia grins and squeezes her heels against her mount, pushing forward. When Cesare drags her from the saddle and bands his arms around her, Lucrezia knows she will not have to dream of her brother tonight, she will have him. The dreams will come again, of that she has no doubt, but they will come when she is in Rome, where she belongs with the person she belongs to.

 

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> I owe the hugest, most epic of thanks to bigbootyborgias (grimgrace) for being amazing and encouraging and dealing with an insane number of tense shifts. Any and all mistakes are mine. All correct tenses are hers.


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